


It Is Over

by bronweathanharthad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Post-Quest, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 07:06:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11572911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: Despite the safety of his surroundings and the Quest's finality, Frodo cannot shake the sensation of Sauron's gaze.





	It Is Over

Frodo shut the door to his chambers, grateful to finally have time alone.

     The setting sun and two candles provided little light, but anything was an improvement over the obscuring darkness of those two weeks. Aragorn had graciously offered him a bedroom with a balcony, and he decided to take advantage of it despite his unease at such heights.

     The sunset painted the sky vibrant shades of purple, pink, and orange, all blending seamlessly together. Frodo had only spent a few waking hours in the daylight, and his eyes still struggled to re-adjust to the beauty. His eyes hurt a little at the spectacle of the sunset, but he did not care. He would absorb every moment of this one instance. Perhaps it would bring back to mind some of the many sunsets of his past.

     As the sky transitioned to teal, his gaze faltered from the sky, looking instead on the mountain range just beneath. Smoke still rose from the unseen ruins of Sauron’s domain – or, at least, so Frodo thought. After he blinked, the smoke seemed to dissipate.

     No moon tonight. All the better to see the stars. Frodo never thought he would miss the stars so sorely. The longer he looked, the more stars he saw, illuminating the entire sky, and he was surprised to find a few tears in his eyes.

     But as the early spring chill set in and a nighttime breeze rustled his hair, the sense of enchantment faded. _I am too exposed. He will find me out here. I have to get inside, somewhere he cannot see me._ He backed into his chambers, nearly slamming the door and taking a few extra seconds to make sure it was completely closed, and dove into bed.

     As he lay shivering under the blankets, his neck began to ache, an unseen weight crushing his chest. He tried to rub the pain away, expecting the unforgiving chain and the sickly warm blood, but instead found only healing flesh.

      _What is wrong with me?_

 

Weariness lay heavy on him despite the long, peaceful respite Aragorn granted him. A halfway-decent meal might help bring his strength back, but the weeks of consuming naught but the occasional Lembas nibble had withered his appetite.

     He’d only stomached a few small bites at tonight’s supper. An inexplicable melancholy came over him, a melancholy that only worsened with each politely declined plate. Had it not been for his innate drive for politeness, he would have excused himself early.

     Worst of all were his companions’ worried glances. They all seemed locked in a perpetual state of concern, and he’d hardly assuaged them. No doubt they were frustrated with his lack of progress, as was he.

     A dark wish crept into his heart. By now it had become familiar, but he had never spoken of it and had no plan to.

      _I should have died at the Mount._

 

A gentle knock and a friendly voice startled him out of his trance.

     “Frodo? May I come in?”

     He timidly poked his head out from under the sheets. “Yes, of course.”

     Aragorn opened and closed the door with surprising delicacy. “In bed already?” he asked, his eyes betraying his concern.

     “Well, yes,” Frodo answered timidly. “I spent some time on the balcony, but…”

     The Dúnedan knelt at the hobbit’s bedside. “Are you unwell? I’d expected that you would have recovered some of your strength by now.”

     “I am not hurt,” he said. “It’s just … I have not been myself.”

     “That may not happen for a while; you and I both know that.” A frown flickered on Aragorn’s face. “Frodo, I am your friend. If something is troubling you, I want to know.”

 

Frodo hesitated. To lay his own problems on Aragorn, who was burdened enough with the responsibilities of his impending kingship … he couldn’t do it. But silence would only make his friend press him more.

     Perhaps a compromise could be reached; he would divulge only a little, maybe enough to satisfy Aragorn’s curiosity.

     “It is silly,” he said as he discreetly picked at his half-finger, “but I do not yet feel safe. I know that I am, yet I cannot shake the feeling that the Eye still watches me. Day or night, I still sense his presence. I long to relax, but it simply impossible.”

     Aragorn’s eyes briefly betrayed his sadness before resuming their normal placid state, and he placed a steadying hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Frodo, your fears are not silly in the slightest. You suffered trauma that I would not know even in my darkest dreams. Too few people could face such evil and live to tell the tale, and none were nearly as burdened as you were. You’ve no reason to be ashamed.

     “If you seek advice, I have none except to give it time. We all have scars that need healing. Right now the memories are still too fresh, and it will take time before you can learn to relax again.”

     “I know, Aragorn, but all the time in the world may not help me.”

     “We will just have to see. I am sorry. I wish I could give you a better answer.”

     “No, it’s all right. Thank you.”

     “Is anything else on your mind?”

     Avoiding Aragorn’s eyes, Frodo said no.

     With a frown Aragorn gave Frodo’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and let go. “We are here for you,” he said at the doorway. “You do not need to be brave for our sakes.”


End file.
